Three things first:
If you’re reading this and thinking “hey isn’t this usually the post Jay only leaves fully unlocked for paid subscribers?” You’re right. But since I am in my previously-mentioned transition period between publishing all-access posts on 2nd/4th Tuesdays to 1st/3rd Tuesdays, I figured I might split the difference this week with giving EVERYONE a little peek into some of the semi-experimental writing I’m doing behind the paywall… and publish on a Monday instead of a Tuesday or Sunday.
In the process of wedding planning, Daisygreen and I have begun to curate readings for our ceremony. In the process of reading through our abundance of poetry books (because anyone who owns more than one owns, like, twenty) I rediscovered Robert Bly’s “A Week of Poems at Bennington”, published as part of his excellent Morning Poems, and thought it might be a fun mode to ape for a post.
When I took creative writing classes in college, the only two modes that I seemed to be any good at were nonfiction and poetry. I occasionally still write poems but most of them stay stuck in my morning pages. Here, however, seemed like a great opportunity to bust some out.
So now you know how we got here. And if you don’t want to read any poems, here’s your out!
“I Can’t Make It Happen, I’m Sorry”
Monday
is what the host goes around saying to pretty much everyone but the lucky few he can squeeze in. I hear these words. I have said these words to people, in the same exasperated tone. Measured. Curt without being dismissive. Before he broke the news Anthony waved someone over to him, spoke in hushed tones. He's the last non-employee to get the nod. I know I will need to go elsewhere so I tap my phone until the sign-up sheet is completed, then tap it again to tell Daisygreen I will be home late. At least he's telling us. Some can't.
In The Flop
Tuesday
Getting a crowd who doesn't want to see standup comedy to care about watching standup comedy feels like the toughest job in showbiz. These people just want to see the roasters, but I must convince them that the half hour between now and when the meanest shit you'll ever hear might get said out loud is worth their time and attention. Unfortunately tonight I am the only one who bombs well. This is what gets me about performers: hearing them berate the audience, knowing I will have to clean up their mess and go "ha ha! Well let's rack 'em up and try again! This next comic won't be hostile!" with smiles and gestures of good faith. One guy breaks through, finally rocking the room, by talking mostly about STDs. After that the crowd goes back to being polite. I tell Moses "it's like trying to solve a puzzle." He nods knowingly, "they never like this," under his breath.
A Formula For Solving Anxiety
Wednesday
In the afternoon I am in a basement wine bar for an open mic that is not really open. You must pass the "no pieces of shit" test that the hosts set forth. Recommendations or already-knowns only. Here a comic I haven't seen since pre-pandemic sits next to me in the back row. Now he has a mustache. Now he wears glasses. It's giving Bill Hicks, a Gen Z-er might say. And his jokes are as funny and acidic as I remember them being, but with the benefit of more time and surprise and weariness under his belt. Near the end of his five he looks at his left forearm, and tells us it's where I have a reminder to not panic. That comics are the only people he knows who have to have a visible reminder that they won't spontaneously combust if something goes awry. I laugh too loud. I look at the words "keep going" tattooed between my elbow and wrist. The host tells him welcome back and he mutters don't get used to it.
Bouffon Show
Thursday
I've been meaning to see Eric so his one-time-only performance of an old show about love and lies and the lies we tell ourselves about love is an inescapable opportunity. He has told me about this over coffee, maybe a year ago, how he was worried about revealing parts of himself that the audience might judge him for, and we talk about vulnerability in comedy, a stand-up and a clown asking questions and chattering at a table upstairs. The moment he seemed startled by was over in a blink, an admission that few stand-ups have made but that many probably could if they tried. He alternates costumes between his bright-red beach ball-stuffed leotard and the garb of a medieval accordion player. He keeps messing up the accordion solo but you'd never know if that was by accident or by design. He gets a woman to tell us about when she cheated on an ex, telling her cuckolded lover she was just at home resting. An easy lie to get caught in. Another one tells us about a relationship where she was able to pursue sex with women, while her partner's dance card remained empty, not for lack of trying. But the day-to-day shit is what unraveled it all, she swears. By the end Eric slow-dances with an audience member, seeing how far they can go, how much beauty they can make together after about 50 minutes of grotesque inquiry. If you're wondering: they kissed before the bows. Standing ovation. It was the ending none of us knew we deserved.
Bull
Friday
Before the 11 o'clock mic where my new jokes really begin to cook, I'm at a birthday party, two locations and two Diet Cokes deep. I am watching people play musical chairs while they work to meet Steph's new Scottish boyfriend, or to get closer to the complimentary spinach artichoke dip, or to whisper about how a couple at the opposite end of the table are slowly breaking up. They wear the smiles and geniality of people who have accepted that they must decouple gracefully and glacially. Our server says that the birthday girl must ride the mechanical bull, and if she won't, that someone else has to take her place. How Hunger Games. I am volunteered as tribute because I am the only Texan here, which must mean I'm the most likely to succeed. I sign the waiver. I get the run-down from a cowboy hatted thirtysomething who has given this exact speech hundreds of times. Lean back when the bull's down. Lean forward when it's up. One hand on the "reins" and one hand in the air. I ride for, I dunno, 20 seconds, before my hand starts to slip. I know the fall is coming so instead I roll off to the right. I get good jobs and wows and pats on the back. Video has been taken and will be sent. The bull operator says I did pretty good. Our server says "he only lies on Fridays."
Brewery Festival
Saturday
It is windy in Palm Springs so there is sand in my teeth as I eat Sam's Club pepperoni pizza in the taproom. "The food vendor had to shut down," is the reason I am told I have the pizza. Later, after two sets, one for a large crowd and one for a crowd that's about 1/5 of the same people from the large crowd, I tell the final comic of the night not to give up on her new bit about getting attached to shitty men. She can make the men more ridiculous and less sad. The great dilemma of comedy: where is the funny part within the sad part? For Dana it might be in pursuing guys with no power, no water, no electricity.
Bad News After Clown Class
Sunday
I get two texts from two friends asking if I can talk for a few minutes. The first one tells me the kind of bad news where I can't help but cry on my drive home. He pulls it together between tear-choked explanations, asks me how clown class was. It feels cosmically silly to lament having had an off day on stage to him. We keep it short. He has other phone calls he needs to make and a day at work to dust himself down for. I tell him I love him, man. My other friend just wants to know if I recognize a name that I have never heard. We are all having very different afternoons.